


Dorian/Iron Bull ficlets

by pearwaldorf



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-20 00:22:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3629727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearwaldorf/pseuds/pearwaldorf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An archive of Dorian/Iron Bull ficlets I've posted to my Tumblr. G for now but all NSFW chapters will be marked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. picnic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For deepsix, who requested fluff

He’s given a time and directions to a grove just outside Skyhold, and so he arrives at the appointed hour. There is a blanket, a basket presumably full of food, and an Iron Bull, holding a bottle of wine. He sees Dorian and a flash of something (nervousness? impossible) crosses his face. 

“It’s too much isn’t it? I know the boss meant well when he suggested a picnic, but—”

“No, it’s just right.” Dorian sits down, a little overwhelmed. They’ve carefully avoided any talk about their… arrangement, mostly because of him. He did not think the potential for anything more was likely, but with all this, he realizes how much he wants it, and it is terrifying.

“You look a little funny. Something wrong?“ Bull’s voice is soft, ever-considerate. 

"All this effort, just for me?” He means for the question to come out much more dismissive than astonished. Bull laughs, the bastard. He fucking laughs. It’s not unkind, more incredulous than anything. He takes Dorian’s hands in his and kisses them, very gently.

“I can’t think of anybody I’d rather make a fuss over. Now do you want me to feed you strawberries or not?”


	2. picnic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this picture](https://instagram.com/p/0oqWRAB0g5/) from Rafa Rech's Instagram. Then Dan had to say something.

The light in Seheron has a beautiful, elusive quality that Dorian has been trying to capture this entire trip, but right now it is especially lovely, gilding the objects in their vacation rental. He squints through the viewfinder and looks at the objects on the coffee table again. As adequate as any modern camera is at capturing what’s in front of it, without a person behind it there is no art. And he is so close to what he wants to show the world. He just needs to look at it a little bit more.

"Dorian?" Bull’s voice comes from the bed, a little tired and sleep-raspy. “Stop messing around with that camera and come here.” He tries to wiggle his eyebrow suggestively, but it’s one of those things that works only with a pair. This does not stop him from making an attempt. Dorian is not charmed in spite of himself, and will go to his death swearing otherwise. He fusses more with the camera, tilting it to and fro.

“The light will go. It’s perfect now.” He snaps a picture and frowns at the screen. It’s all right, but he can do better.

“ _You’re_ perfect now.” Bull’s voice is soft, and Dorian, still, is surprised by the hitch in his chest that accompanies such remarks. He sets the camera on the table.

“I’m always perfect,” Dorian says as he slides in next to Bull, who is warm from sleep and blankets. Bull kisses him on the forehead.

“What about your pictures? Don’t you have grand artistic visions to show the world?” Dorian settles himself on Bull’s shoulder.

“The light is going. I’ll try again tomorrow.” They lay in bed and watch the sun move across the room, breaths lengthening like the shadows, until they are both asleep.


	3. my destiny is in your hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK this is more pre-relationship but whatever.

Dorian finds himself next to The Iron Bull, as the Inquisitor and Varric search the area for another damnable lyrium shard. They have not been acquainted long, but even Dorian can tell this is not the easy-going Qunari he met in the Redcliffe Chantry. There is a grimness to his face, a hard set to his jaw that is intensified by the wisps of red lyrium coming from his body. 

“So, you think you know how to fix this?” The Bull’s voice is terse, curt.

“I have a working theory, yes.” 

“You’d better be sure, because I think we’re only going to get one shot.” Despite the statement’s accuracy, Dorian is still vaguely offended.

“I will remind you that I helped create this amulet, and if necessary I will unmake it myself.” 

“And I’ll remind _you_ that up until about an hour ago, I thought you and the Inquisitor were dead. If there’s any chance we can make this”—here The Bull gestured vaguely around them—”not happen, I’ll do everything I can to help.” There is an odd stirring in Dorian’s chest, one that he is saved from examining further when the Inquisitor holds up a red shard.

—

“Varric and I’ll hold them off at the front, give you as much time as we can.” The Bull’s voice is assured. “Leliana, you’re the last line of defense.” She nods, and all three of them walk a little taller, knowing what comes next. Dorian meets The Bull’s eyes, and he smiles, however grimly. Dorian lifts his chin haughtily. As if there was ever a doubt he wouldn’t know how to fix this.

The Inquisitor looks back, right as the Elder One’s troops burst through the door. Out of the corner of his eye, Dorian sees a small body shoved to the side through force of movement, as one would kick aside a stone. He does not know if it is better or worse that he does not see a large one. 

—

He’s staring into a mug of disgusting Fereldan beer when he notices a large figure slide onto the bench across from him. It’s probably rude of him to keep staring at the beer, but it has been a rather trying time.

“So I hear the mages are coming to Haven.” Dorian doesn’t respond. “I guess you have had a bit of an intense week. I’ll leave you alone.” Bull starts to get up, but Dorian gestures for him to stay.

“You died for me—us—there. In that strange future Alexius created.” He curls his fingers around the mug, carefully not looking at Bull’s face. “A Qunari, sacrificing himself in the most appallingly, predictably noble manner, for a Vint and a Tal-Vashoth. I know that wasn’t precisely you, but I am grateful nonetheless.” There is a low rumble across the table, which Dorian finally decides must be a sound of amusement.

“I have to give not-precisely-me credit for knowing how to pick ‘em.” He laughs outright this time, throwing his head back. The Chargers, having been alerted to their leader’s presence, gesture him over to their table. Before he walks over to join his crew, Bull catches Dorian’s eye. “I don’t know what happened there, not really, and from what the Inquisitor’s said, it doesn’t sound like anything I’d want to. But I—he—must have thought you were worth it, or he wouldn’t have done it otherwise.”

Dorian watches Bull’s retreating figure, and takes a long drink from his beer.


	4. things you said that i wasn’t meant to hear

Dorian gets letters from Tevinter. He always has, but now that Corypheus is dead and the Venatori are scattered, they seem to flow like water. It’s always interesting to see how alliances shift after victory, but Bull has to admit this is on a level he didn’t think possible. Most of them he tosses on sight without opening, but there are a few he lingers over. They all share a seal, and occasionally whiffs of perfume that have somehow survived the long trip south. Dorian never discloses the contents, but he does take long walks on the battlements after reading them. Bull doesn’t pry, because it’s not any of his business, but he wonders, because there’s not much that makes Dorian go quiet like that.

–

He’s heading up the stairs to Dorian’s alcove when he hears Adaar’s voice. 

“You’re not asking me this because I’m qunari, are you?” She’s not offended, but she’s definitely amused at whatever question Dorian’s posed.

“I’m asking you as a qunari who’s never been to Tevinter. There’s a difference.” Dorian’s tone implies this should be obvious, and Bull bites back a laugh. He thinks Adaar might be as well.

“I’m the Inquisitor. There’s a difference.” Bull can imagine the wry twist of her lips when she says that. She’s become more comfortable with throwing the Inquisition’s weight around when she needs to, but the title itself still rests uneasily with her. (The first time he called her “Boss” when she expected “Inquisitor” or “Your Worship” she quirked an eyebrow. But she smiled the entire time.) “Qunari have thick skin, and you know Bull can take care of himself in a fight. What’s this really about?” He can hear the rustle of paper.

“You remember Magister Tilani, I assume. Her little resistance faction has grown powerful with the defeat of the Venatori. There are more than a few reform-minded people in it. And she has a place for me in Qarinus, if I wish it. I could do good there.” A pause, and a shaky breath. “Mae… she was family to me when my own turned away. It would be good to see her again.” 

Bull can’t say he’s surprised. He’s used to evaluating all outcomes of a situation as a necessity of his line of work. This is one he pegged as possible but had no sense of how likely it was to happen. But that was a long time ago, or what felt like such. It’s something he’s been careful to step around, with Dorian and in his head. They have a good thing going, and he thought that’s all it needed to be. Until the possibility of something different presented itself.

 _Tama, you’d laugh if you could see me now_ , he thinks as he walks down the stairs. _Your observant boy you personally sent to the Hissrad, not seeing exactly what’s in front of him._

–

He’s cleaning his blade in his room when Dorian walks in. Bull knows it’s serious when he doesn’t slam the door. 

“How much did you hear?” He asks. His tone is bland, leached of all emotion. 

“Enough, I think.” It’s a thing Dorian should do, and meraad knows he’d be good for Tevinter. “When do you leave? I expect you’ll want to get there before the passes seal us all in on this mountain.”

“Leave?” Dorian’s voice is at once disdainful and incredulous in that way Bull has come to find familiar. “You great lummox, I just wrote to Maevaris to decline. She has things well in hand, and there are enough people who think as I that continuing to have a like-minded ally with the ear of the Inquisition is more helpful.” He sits down on the bed. Bull puts his blade down. Dorian is very carefully not looking at him.

“I have become very fond of things here in the south. More than I ever thought I could. As much as I miss Tevinter, I would miss them more.” Bull kisses Dorian on the forehead, and he closes his eyes. Dorian hands Bull his sharpening stone. 

“Also, it’s impossible to get Fereldan beer in Qarinus. I asked Mae to check.”


	5. confessing a fetish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For sabinelagrande.
> 
> This takes place after their first hook-up.

It is late, and the crowds at the tavern have departed. Which is not to say that the Herald’s Rest is closed, but it is certainly much quieter than before. Even the Chargers have left for wherever they lay their heads, and Maryden is mostly asleep, playing the same five chords over and over. Dorian and Bull have one of the corner tables on the second floor, and a pile of tankards in front of them. They’ve settled into a companionable silence, and Dorian is pleasingly buzzed, flush with Fereldan beer that he grudgingly admits he’s starting to like. (Not that he would say this to anybody else. He still has appearances to keep.)

As the night has worn on, he finds himself inching closer and closer to Bull, until they are touching, side to side. It is not objectionable. Bull is warm, and does not smell anywhere near as bad as he expected. Dorian takes a drink of his beer. He can feel Bull turn to look at him, like he wants to say something.

“Well?” Dorian prompts. “If you have something to say, you might as well get on with it. I think Cabot’s itching to kick us out.”

There is a long pause, as if Bull is trying to figure out how best to say what he wants. It is uncharacteristic, for a man who is normally quick with a (terrible) joke or greeting. It makes Dorian nervous.

“Can I ask you something? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, and it will never leave this table.” Dorian’s apprehension does not lessen.

“Well that depends on the question, doesn’t it?” He hopes his voice is appropriately nonchalant.

“When you came over. You had a nice time, right?” That was not the question Dorian was expecting. It is not something he has ever been asked. In Tevinter, satisfaction between men is quick and furtive to avoid discovery, or given in exchange for money. Pleasure, mutual or otherwise, is not part of the equation. And yet, he spent long hours in Bull’s room that night, fucking and getting fucked, worked over until he couldn’t string two thoughts together. He woke up later in Bull’s bed, relaxed and sated in an unfamiliar way that he did not dislike. He almost didn’t want to leave.

“I did.” He cannot think up a cutting or even sarcastic response, which is how he knows he’s in trouble.

“Good.” Bull practically glows, he’s so pleased. “Anything else you want to try sometime? I can probably make it work.” Dorian expects a rude gesture or at least a leer, but there is only sincere inquiry. Something shifts in his chest, a feeling he doesn’t know what to do with.

“You are remarkably presumptuous, assuming there will be another time,” he finally says. Bull shrugs, and begins digging through his purse to pay his part of the tab. Dorian watches as he drops the coins on the table and prepares to stand.

“Wait.” He tugs at Bull’s shoulder until he bends close enough to whisper in his ear. Somehow, telling these things to another person is much less frightening than he imagined. (Or perhaps it is because he’s telling them to Bull, but that is not an avenue of thought he is going to explore.) When he pulls away, Bull smiles, slow and thoughtful in a way that makes the heat curl in Dorian’s belly and his breath catch.

“I can do that. More importantly, I can do it well.”

Dorian tosses the remainder of the bill on the table and gets up. Bull remains sitting.

“Are you coming or not? The night is hardly young.” Dorian huffs impatiently. Bull laughs and gets up. They wave to Cabot on the way out.


	6. aching [nsfw]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [Wham! Splat! Porn!](http://wham-splat-porn.tumblr.com/)

One thing Bull has never ever gotten used to about Skyhold is the rain. Sure, there’s rain everywhere, especially in Seheron, but it’s nothing like it is up in the Frostbacks. As far as he can tell it has two forms: either hanging in your face like a cloud stepping down or pelting cold, until the wet seeps into your bones. 

It aggravates everything that hurts (and there are many things in his body that do), but his knee is the worst. Even with his brace, walking is difficult. Sure, he does his drills with the Chargers and walks to the tavern to get his meals because he has to, but otherwise, he’s done. He retires to his room and stokes the brazier, hoping the heat will be sufficient to dull the ache enough so he can sleep. 

He’s in his chair, propping his leg up on a stool when Dorian walks in. He has a pot of salve in his hand and an expression that if it were on anybody else’s face would be concern. (Bull’s still working on the it’s all right to admit you care thing. He admits they’re still circling the idea.) 

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’re walking funny again,” He says airily, like the lightness of his tone will disguise his worry. 

“It’s nothing I can’t handle.” This is true. He can ride this out as long as he needs to. Because really, it’s not like there’s another option.

“Enduring and needlessly suffering are not the same thing, as much as many people in this Inquisition may think.” Dorian says, irritation coloring his voice. It’s kind of touching. “I won’t do anything to your knee that you don’t want, but this will help.” 

“If it makes you happy.” Bull says. It seems to be important to him that he do this, so why not let him? Dorian conjures a tiny bit of fire into his palms, rolls the jar around. Little sparks are still visible on his fingertips when he pulls dollops of salve out, spreading it over his knee, massaging it into his skin. 

Bull bites back a groan, the dulling of pain such a sharp contrast to his previous state it’s almost erotic. Dorian continues to work the muscles around the joint, coaxing them out of their previously bunched state, and Bull sighs with it. Dorian’s palms and fingers are warmer than body heat could possibly make them; and it makes Bull feel funny in a way he can’t quite express, the use of this force that can--has--shattered the world, for such a small comfort.

“Better?” Dorian asks. Bull flexes his knee experimentally, and finds that it moves easily now, with considerably less distress. 

“A lot.” He pulls Dorian down, kisses him. “Thanks.” Dorian arranges himself until he’s in Bull’s lap, straddling him. Oh. All right then. 

“I’m glad, because then I wouldn’t be able to do this in good conscience.” Dorian reaches into Bull’s pants, his fingers still slick. 

“Never know, might have taken my mind off of things.” Bull retorts, but mildly. Now that his mind isn’t filled with at least a low-level haze of pain, it’s easy to pay attention to the want and the need of other things he’s been neglecting. He pushes into Dorian’s hand just a little, more eager than he realized, and Dorian smirks at it.

“I think I would prefer you enjoy this with as little pain as possible. At least of the involuntary, unnegotiated kind.” Dorian grips him more tightly, working up and down his length until he’s shaking with the effort of not fucking into Dorian’s hand like he really wants. 

Dorian must notice (he can’t not), because he curls his other hand at the side of Bull’s face, strokes his cheek. “Let me take care of you this time,” He murmurs, kissing Bull on the lips, soft, almost chaste. He adds a wicked little twist to the strokes along Bull’s cock, and Bull can feel the wave of his orgasm building, the maddening but sweet ache of it. He’s so close everything else has dropped away: just him, Dorian, and the chair. 

“Come on, I want you to,” Dorian urges, and that tips him over, spilling against Dorian’s hand, his pants, himself. He falls back against the chair, sated, boneless. Dorian rests his head on Bull’s shoulder, right against his neck. Everything is good and for now, nothing hurts.


End file.
